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it’s like a game of rock, paper, scissors. music beats books. pussy beats music. books beat digging holes.

this week music has found its way back into its premiere roll in my life: keeping me from getting shit done. while school builds to a crescendo, i have discovered, among other things, teddy’s juke joint.

teddy’s was described to me as ‘in the middle of fucking nowhere.’ turns out those were pretty good directions. baton rouge is rather cosmopolitan in many ways, but like most small towns, if you take three left turns you’re quickly on the road less traveled.

i’ve been hearing about teddy’s for weeks, and a friend of mine has been going up there on wednesday’s for their voodoo open mic. wednesdays are historically shit for me, so i’ve been flaking (i.e. being responsible.) this wednesday, however, i hosted a little film viewing at my place for my southern studies class (great documentary called southern comfort ). after the movie (and a few beers), wednesday night was already shot to hell, so chicago and i headed out to get our rural louisiana on. the words ‘where the fuck are we?’ were uttered more than once en route.

the end justified the means, yet again.

teddy’s is the kind of place i’d like to either die or get married at. great sound, cold beer, thirty years of history, warm musicians, fried chicken … girls look cuter and guitars sound better in a place like teddy’s. teddy himself is nothing short of surreality. i spent about a half hour up in his dj booth hearing about all the musicians who have passed through the club over the years. it’s a who’s who of the blues, and teddy tells all the stories with all the pride of a grandfather praising the accomplishments of his extended family. all the while he’s showing me photos and cds and records, we’re both six inches from a loaded shotgun that’s leaning on the wall. makes me think the song ‘stagger lee’ might have been sung a time or two in there …

teddy was born in the very building that is now the bar. the place used to be a black club, just outside town enough where nobody would give anybody any shit, but over the years white musicians made their way there cause, you know, that’s where the black musicians were playing. today, business is hurting a bit, so i’m on point to get all the academics and intellectuals to go see some of the shit they love to read about in all them books. it ain’t that far of a drive … shit, it took me longer to get to a gas station from topanga than it took me to get from my place to teddy’s. no traffic neither …

i got to sit in on three or four tunes on drums with the house band. the guitarist was epic … guy named sam hogan. everybody could play, and all was alright for about an hour. as fats waller used to say, ‘somebody shoot me while i’m happy!’

i walked off the stage after we were done and the bartender handed me a styrofoam container with a napkin and a fork on top. ‘for the music,’ he said. inside was a piece of fried chicken, a little spaghetti, and two pieces of white bread. they even gave chicago mel a set up (and since she don’t eat no meat, more fried chicken for me). i’ve never been compensated for playing an open mic before. in fact, i think i’ve payed to play at a few in california (!).

well, if i die tomorrow, at least i saw teddy’s.

god willing and the creek don’t rise, i’ll see y’all out there next week.

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